


Halloween

by hamildooodles



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27316504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamildooodles/pseuds/hamildooodles
Summary: A quick one-shot of Halloween shenanigans at the aide-de-camp office.  Hamilton's POV.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Kudos: 17





	Halloween

“Have you heard of anything? A man of culture, and a vast overseas education, yet I know more about the world than you with my crude upbringing!”

“You’re an ass,” he says, rolling his eyes at me accompanied by a smile he cannot repress. “And I know about it, I’m not from New England like you.”

“Ah, who be the ass now?” I groan with attempted displeasure, but my throat cracks a laugh instead. Laurens has a point; I’ve gotten more of a liberal education of the holiday since enlisting. 

“I grew up with five younger siblings, you think I never had any fun?” I raise my eyebrows and he laughs. “Before my father found out, I mean.”

“Your point is moot. I do believe I’m the Scot here.” I drag a finger down my cheek as he laughs. 

“Gil might know more than you,” he teases, tossing balled up paper at me from across the office.

“Oh you plan to compare? I believe you’re more well-traveled, but perhaps not so well-read.” He can sense my feigning, no matter how he conceals the crinkle of his nose. 

“Zon’t breng me into dis, you deux.”

The office is comprised of just us three now, everyone long trickled out as correspondence shrunk. There’s never enough French, however, and with Tilghman serving as courier for the evening, such remains our trio. Our candles have yet to burn low, despite the darkness of nightfall, my hand cramps, or my longing to be abed with him. The night remains quietly focused, no sound for the exception of scratching quills and a cool autumn breeze that causes a sweeping noise between panels on open windows. 

There are limited memories of my father, and I fear I might lose them all by the time I reach thirty. Yet he loved the day, lived for its teasing. The Scottish tradition never left his heart when he left the countryside. My mother would laugh when I was very young, but less and less so with each passing year. I have yet to forget his smile, his freckles and fiery hair lit up by a sole candle in the dark of our tiny, shared bedchamber. His eyes would bulge when we heard mother’s footsteps chasing after our screams, heavy up the stairs, and he’d squeeze in between two brothers in a bed that was much too small for all three. And we giggled nonetheless, losing all sensibility when she would yank the covers off to scold my father for eliciting such yells from two hysterical boys. He never had learned, and the entertaining cycle would continue year after year, until I was left longing for his devious smile at only age eight. 

Perhaps he has more children to scare now, another bed to squeeze within, another family to run from. How strange I must be to wish for his thoughts about us now: every Halloween with James and I by his side, enthralled and adoring as two illegitimate sons could be. I press my quill too hard on the parchment, creating a dark black blob that could erase any written memories underneath. 

The breeze through the window causes our flames to flicker, and further irritability ensures. I throw a hand up to guard against the gusts, writing hard enough again for the tip of the quill to snap. I growl under my breath, standing to reach into a drawer for the penknife. Gil sees me stirring and suppresses a smile, “Alreght, mon ami?”

“Blasted quill,” I mutter back, which produces a laugh from Laurens. 

“Didn’t see the quill misbehave, I’m afraid.”

“Be afraid,” I attempt to scowl, but erupt into a laugh when the wily smirk forms about his cheeks. 

“Ees ‘alloween, non? Shuldn’t we all be afrayd?”

“Oh please,” Laurens and I moan in unison, chucking over the table in perfect meter with Lafayette. 

Patience dwindles like the long lost rays of daylight, and I rustle through the drawer, searching uselessly by the alternate of measly candlelight. Glances at the long table reveal not the object in mind. “The penknife, have you?”

“Shouldn’t have treated the quill so ruthlessly,” Laurens sneers, biting his lip. 

“Oh I shouldn’t have treated it like you in battle then!” 

Gil laughs too hard, and John fails to hold back that same smirk. “No Hammy, haven’t seen it actually.” The two of them glance under the long tablecloth and I further a search, tearing apart contents in empty drawers. 

The office turns dark before I am able to raise my head. The whites of Gil’s eyes swell when I meet them. Laurens looks to the window, as if searching for the gust that never came. “Damned wind,” I utter before anyone else can convince themselves otherwise. 

“Well, who plans to disturb His Excellency for his fireplace?” Laurens laughs, much like a nervous cough. “Not Ai. Ai know bettair than to buther ‘im at dis ‘our.” 

“Come on,” I groan, not entertaining the alternative of borrowing flames from soldier’s bonfires. The General's quarters exist only up the stairs, yet I’d prefer not to climb them in the pitch, creak as they might due to the dreaded amalgamation that is ancient architecture and rapid drop in temperature. 

Rustling comes from the floor above. Washington’s office has long been dismissed for the evening, and I see no such candlelight to illuminate the other rooms of the house. “Perhaps he’ll bring it down to us,” I chide, pushing out my coattails to resume my seat, self-assured. Lafayette and Laurens keep their eyes locked on the floor above as if to listen for noises that might be expected of human maneuvers.

Floorboards groan from the strain of footsteps and I rise, prepared to meet the General halfway. “Thank you, Your Excellency. You must’ve heard our plight and I do appreciate your efforts to ease the late night office burdens.” He does not reply, not even a chuckle. I squint up the staircase with careful footing.

The sharp noise comes from behind, and Laurens and Lafayette jolt, their startled motions rippling out from the center of the table. I gasp, squinting at the penknife fallen from above, stuck upright between slats of wood on the tabletop. It is then, when I hear the deep laugh, that a noise most ungentlemanly escapes my chest. 

Washington’s laugh rises in pitch when he appears slung over the top banister with a candle, barking at my trembling. Gil rises to his feet and scurries up the stairs, wrapping an arm around the General with pitiful laughter. “You deux waire most afrayd!” 

“I knew I didn’t feel that wind!” Laurens shouts, finger pointed at Gil still doubled over at the top of the stairs. The warm tone leaves his chest to follow the cadence of their laughter, while I am left standing dumbfounded.

“You two planned this? Why you, you’re about to get it Gilbert!” I grab both handrails and skip the steps, lunging at him in jest. He licks his fingertips and pinches out the flame before grabbing at my sides, administering another ugly childish sound from my throat.


End file.
